The Color Code is everywhere, even 30,000 feet in the air. I recently flew across the country with my 15-month-old baby. My husband had a conference to attend in Florida. And, Yellow that he is, he insisted that our baby and I tag along to make a vacation out of it. A five-hour flight with a one-year-old? Sure, what could wrong?

The flight there was heavenly. Our baby, Maggie, was a dream. She ate her snacks, she played with toys, she waved sweetly to the people seated around us. What was I so worried about? Traveling with a baby is a piece of cake. I’d seen those frazzled, sweaty parents running through the airport. I’d watched as they chased their toddlers up and down the airplane aisles. I’d even laughed at the juice stains and discarded fruit snacks stuck to their clothes. Not me. Not my baby. Someone might as well just give me my “Mother of the Year” award now.

We had a fabulous stay. The hotel was lovely. The ocean water was warm. Maggie slept well and charmed the fellow hotel guests with her repertoire of animal noises. The only problem was the size of my growing ego. I arrived at the airport for our return flight with all the confidence in the world. And that is when reality kicked me in the gut.

Somewhere along the drive from our hotel to the airport, our perfect baby was replaced by a wild, screaming, kicking machine. The flight was a nightmare. The only thing that would keep Maggie semi-quiet was to kick the back of the (occupied) seat in front of us. She threw every snack she was offered onto the floor. She spit out her juice. With a strength I did not know she was capable of, she spun her whole body out of my lap and onto the floor, where she would stick who-knows-what in her mouth and then make a mad dash for the aisle. If I would have had my “Mother of the Year” award handy at that point, I might have used it to knock myself out for the remainder of the flight.

But alas, that was not an option. So instead I kept myself sane by playing one of my favorite games: What Color Are They? The woman seated across the aisle who simply couldn’t keep her concern to herself…what color is she? “I think maybe her ears are hurting her. Oh, the poor thing! I remember when my babies were that age and their ears caused so much trouble. Here,” she says, grabbing my baby’s ears and tugging, “try this. This always worked. I just hate to think about her ears hurting her. There’s really nothing worse…” and on, and on, and on. “Blue,” I think to myself, as I smile and nod at her.

The gentleman seated in the row ahead of us, who acted as if he’d been waiting years for the chance to play peek-a-boo…what color is he? One glance at him turned around in his seat, making every ridiculous face and sound he can think of to try and make my baby smile, and there is no doubt: Yellow. Or how about the woman who marched right up to me (as I stood bouncing a squirming, wriggling baby in the one-inch space in front of the lavatory), and, without any introduction or time wasted, offered me one sentence of advice. “Give her Benadryl next time,” she commanded. Red.

And finally there’s the man sharing our row. The man who was repeatedly hit in the head with toys. The man whose magazine was ripped away from him by the chubby hands of a demanding toddler. The man whose tray table was pounded on and whose ear was screamed in. The man who did not say one word, let alone make eye contact with me, for the entire five hours. Hmmm, I’m thinking White. We landed and I turned to him and began spewing out every apology I could think of. I got two words out of him: no problem. Yep, definitely White.

And so it was that I survived the flight with the help of the Color Code. Now if only it could help me get these juice stains out of my clothes.

Lindsay has been working with the Color Code for six years, first as Dr. Hartman’s assistant, then in the trainer services department. She is a graduate of Brigham Young University, where she studied English Language. She is a core Blue with a strong secondary White.